


Oil Painted Sunflowers

by oisforoblivion



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alive!mary, Early Mornings, M/M, Painter Andrew, Sunflowers, Sunrises, a quick stop in a long road, art gallery, blown tire, lake, mechanic andrew, trigger warning: domestic violence, village
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:33:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24949261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oisforoblivion/pseuds/oisforoblivion
Summary: Nathaniel and Mary always avoided the villages. They were dangerous, Mary always said. People see you, and they never forget. Nathaniel encounters the bad-tempered mechanic again and again, wondering if it's really that bad to have something permanent for once.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard, andreil - Relationship
Comments: 25
Kudos: 187





	1. Chapter 1

Pebbles crumpled under his shoes, dust in the air just settling down as he shut the door close with a deep thud. He watched his mother kick the front tire a few times over the car’s roof until she kneeled down and swore, loudly, something he had been used to hear until then but still made him feel uneasy. The only substantial light source around being the headlights, when the car fell into silence all Nathaniel could rely on to make up Mary’s expression was his hunch, and the way her British accent got heavier with every word.

“Can we make it to a settlement?”

“We’ll fucking have to, won’t we?” Mary answered, hitting the car’s roof after a moment of contemplation. “Bloody fucking nails, whichever bastard left them there I fucking hope he had the courtesy of falling headfirst on the rustiest one.”

Nathaniel was careful to not comment on the fact that she also had been out of it the whole day, and the poor nails weren't the only factor to be blamed. The worst thing to do then would be giving his mother a material outlet to express her anger on.

“Let’s move then,” he said. “I’ll drive, you rest a bit.”

Mary reluctantly agreed to change seats, the whole way complaining about the owner of the car they stole from, who didn't have the foresight to leave a spare tire.

Nathaniel took the first exit right after ten stressful minutes, the one only indicated by a rusty road sign with a name he didn't take time to read. They followed the road into a small village, the pebble road under them making enough sound for Nathaniel to dream about maxing the radio volume. He kept his hands on the wheel, though. His mom despised the static sound unless it was tuned to catch the police radio.

Nathaniel held his breath and counted to ten before he stepped off the car. They never stopped at small villages.

Small villages were the least optimal places for strangers like them to stop by, the gossip of new faces spreading faster than the plague among the residents. Mary avoided them at all costs, always sticking to safety of the uninterested crowd and cheap places.

“Find a mechanic,” she told Nathaniel.

“It’s 2 a.m.,” Nathaniel responded. “It won’t be open.”

And it wasn't.

Mary knocked on the door (banged on it hard enough to wake up some residents), going on until someone yelled at them to shut the hell up. In five minutes a man was walking up to them in a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, the murder looks in his eye visible even in the dark.

“I don't know if you know how to read but it clearly says ‘closed’ on that door,” the boy said.

“We are terribly sorry,” his mother had switched to her ‘nice in public’ face, and her American accent. “You see, we have an urgency and really need to have our tire changed and-”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“The shop opens on Monday. If you want it done wait until then.”

It was Friday midnight. Mary’s eye twitched.

Nathaniel decided to take over.

“We can’t wait for two days,” Nathaniel said, praying to resolve this as soon as possible. “Can we at least talk to the owner of the shop, maybe we can settle with a sum to compensate-”

“ _ We _ ,” the boy interrupted, “won’t serve before Monday 7 a.m., please feel free to leave.” He took a glimpse at the tire and mockingly smiled. “I hope you can make the 45 minutes there with four tires.”

The menacing silence lasted for a few seconds until Mary took a deep breath, smiled and spoke. “Will you show us where we can stay?”

The boy’s smile widened, and not in a fun way, Nathaniel noted. “Of course. Just try not to disturb the residents in the middle of the night as much.”

\--

Nathaniel didn't think his mother would give in this easily, but her falling asleep the moment she put her head on the pillow made him realize how exhausted she must’ve been for the last few days. They once again made one of their narrow escapes, throwing the pursuers off a state and a few days behind. He initially thought that maybe she was confident about their whereabouts not being discovered, however, his suspicion that the mere reason why they were staying back was caving in to the fatigue sent a shiver over him. It could only explain Mary’s increasing miscalculations and pensiveness.

He couldn't sleep that night. Contrary to Mary’s soft breathing, his heart banged on his chest with enough force that he had to give up trying to sleep after a few hours of failure. He quietly wore his sneakers and put on a light jacket, hoping to not wake his mother up to take off to an unauthorized jogging trip. He thought he could see around before the inhabitants woke up, maybe pinpoint key areas and roads, but most importantly he didn't think he’d get the chance to run freely again in a long time.

The sun was just rising, its scarlet orange hue reaching the streets in between the small buildings. The stoned road looked like it came alive with those colors, soft sounds his shoes made as it contacted the ground being the only source of life other than crickets chirping somewhere unseen.

Nathaniel thought it was peaceful.

Nathaniel, however, would find out that he misjudged how a stranger with his hoodie up running through quiet streets would look like from the outsider’s perspective, pretty soon to be honest, when only ten minutes into his peaceful fast-paced jog, he was thrown to the ground doubled in pain.

His breath was sucked out of his lungs with the impact on his gut, the plastic broom which made the contact breaking in two with a loud crack. Nathaniel fell down, trying to breath in air even if a little bit, but was unsuccessful for the most of the time as his gasps didn't reach further down than his throat.

The assaulter threw the whatever left in his hand to the ground, mumbling something to himself as he grabbed Nathaniel under his shoulders and pulled him up and to the closest chair.

“Next time,” he said, “look less suspicious after you arrive to a town two a.m. the night before.”

Nathaniel looked up to see the same guy as yesterday night when he finally caught a breath, and realized that he was at the repair shop.

“You were the one who smacked me with a broom.”

“Oh, yeah,” he grinned. “You owe me one, it was a damn good broom.”

_ Fucking psycho _ .

“Now, stranger,” he leaned in, “what do you want?”

“A morning run without broken ribs.”

“Funny, we don't serve one of those in our shop.”

“I do know what you serve that could work for us,” Nathaniel said. “A tire. But as far as I remember someone told us that they wouldn’t be open until monday morning. You don't really look closed right now, do you?”

“We are open when I say so,  _ stranger _ . Please enjoy your stay here.”

He stood up, unable to hold on his groan and looked inside the shop before he left. It was a tidy place for a mechanics shop, walls and the floor a lighter shade of than his liking over the similarity with an adorable little basement back at his father’s lair. There was a small counter for payments and a door leading to a back room behind where a car would park, cart stands loaded with various gadgets.

There was one thing that seemed out of place, a darkish yellow hued painting hung up over the far back wall next to the counter, the one Nathaniel couldn't make up from his angle. He unawarely took a step towards its direction, however, stopped dead in his tracks when the blond, manic boy blocking his way in.

Nathaniel entered their room in the small pension without making a sound, a hard feat to be sure when his stomach still pulsated with pain. He dug into the bed holding in his groans, disappointed that his run got cut short.

\--

“Neil, bring us some food while I fix our route. We have to straighten some kinks down in our plan, California is compromised.”

Nathaniel didn't waste time trying to understand who Neil was. They did this a million times now, a new name meant a new identity, and he’d have to stay Neil for a while from then on.

“Did you see any market yesterday? I don't want to wander around for long.”  _ There is a psycho on the streets and we didn't quite have a friendly start. _

“There was one next to the repair shop. Be quick.”

_ Oh great. _

In the market, Neil bagged a few pastries and reached the counter, only to keep himself from screaming in exasperation.

“Do you work  _ everywhere _ ?”

The blond guy looked up from his phone with apathy. “I don't know what you are talking about but I’m a twin if that clears things up. It would be five dollars, thank you.”

Neil paid up and left, his eyes getting caught on a painting right before he stepped out.

The scenery was the impeccably beautiful composition of yellow, orange and green, sunflowers seemingly dancing under the bright sun on the foreground. The lake behind them felt refreshing, Neil thinking he could almost see the water splashing on the shore serenely back and forth if he looked closer. The painting was signed A.J.M. on the right lower corner, small enough that you could miss if you weren’t paying attention.

It was vivid, powerful, and emotional, and Neil was quite sure that it was a different version of the same painting he saw at the repair shop.

\--

Neil was out to walk his stress out, again, his mother left in the pension to make some phone calls with the last of their throwout cell phones. There were favours to be asked and bribes to be given, and Neil decided it was for the best if he wasn't in the same 20 square meter room as she did that.

He tediously avoided the repair shop this time, walking the opposite way into the bushy hill, narrow enough to let only one person pass at a time. Neil walked uphill for ten or so minutes to the summit, freezing captivatedly to the scenery unveiling before him.

He was standing over a vast sunflower field, the perspective almost identical to the painting with turquoise lake spreading its hands closer to the flowers themselves than Neil has seen a water source ever coming close. The brownish green of the bushes and slender bodied trees halted just a few feets down the hill on the other side, as if they were afraid they’d disrupt the beauty of the flowers.

Mesmerized and stupefied, Neil managed to step on a particularly wet patch of soil and slip, finding himself on the ground the second time that day.

“The mysterious stranger doesn’t even need my help to fall, yet I find him on the least likely of the places at the least likely times. I wonder if he wishes for a clean end.”

Neil hissed in pain for a moment before pushing himself up. He didn't need to look at the person to understand who he was.

“I was told I attract danger many times before. Who are you?”

He grinned. “Danger, apparently.”

Neil rolled his eyes. His snarky comment, however, stuck in his throat when he accidentally stepped on the foot he slipped on, and nearly cursed out loud.

_ Shit _ , he thought, trying to subdue the sting on his ankle.  _ That was all I needed now. _

Guy was sitting on a large rock, with a notebook and pencil on his lap. The sun was shining directly on him, making Neil wonder how he could breathe in a long-sleeved black tee and over the knee black shorts. He gave Neil a questioning look when he first stepped on his bad foot but didn't comment on it as he returned his gaze on his notebook.

“Be more careful around here,” he said. “The ground may slip beneath your feet without you being aware of it.”

“A.J.M.,” Neil said. “You must really like sunflowers. Do you have a name other than three letters?”

“I despise them,” he called. “As I despise surprises and strangers. Do I owe anything for your skills in investigation?”

“Other than a name? Not at all.”

“That’s kinda rude, though,” he looked up. “Shouldn't guests introduce them firstly?”

Neil thought for a second before answering. “Neil Josten,” he said. It wouldn’t really matter anyways as Neil Josten would be nothing more than another name in the trail of countless others.

“Andrew,” he replied back. “And you are leaving.”

“Can’t you remember,” Neil opened up his hands. “Blown tire.”

Andrew paused thoughtfully for a few seconds and shut his sketchbook close. “What about, you and I make a deal. You sound very enthusiastic about my paintings, so I guess it’ll be a win-win situation for you.”

“What is it?”

“I open the shop for you tomorrow and fix your tire, and I get a small portrait of you.”

“Like my face, huh?”

“The lenses? I despised. The face?” Andrew shrugged. “I can get around it.”

Blood drained from Neil’s face. “Shut up.”

“Still secretive? Fine,” Andrew said, hopping off the rock. “Suit yourself.”

“Excuse me if I’d rather not have my face hanging on the walls of your tiny repair shop.”

Andrew tsked a few times. “Getting over ourselves, I see. No one said anything about it being public.” He gathered his supplies and brushed pass him. “You know where you can find me if you are interested.”

Neil breathed in the air for a longer while taking in the scenery before him for as long as he could. When, he wondered, when did he paint the sunflower fields? How much did the fields change since then? Did it change at all? There was something temporary about the fields he saw with his eyes right then… but a painting? It was permanent, alive through time.

Nathaniel took one last look at yellow spread, then turned away to go back to where his mum was.

\--

“I can’t fucking see what’s before us, Neil, fuck it,” his mother said tapping her cigarette a few times and ran the ash along the rusty white parapet. “We should stay here for a few more days as caution.”

“Did Stuart say anything?”

Mary took a long drag from her shrunk down cig and flicked it out the window. “Not him, or anyone else. Including our connection in Cali.”

“Shit…”

“Yes, shit,” she said her voice strained to a thin wire. “I didn't think they could reach Frederick this quick but apparently, they did. I found another guy. We are ditching the country again.”

Neil gulped down the hanging question of what must’ve happened to Frederick, but he has been in this situation long enough that he knew exactly what. Slow. Painful.

Bloody.

“Where to?” he voiced instead.

“Switzerland.”

He looked into the mirror for a while before he went to sleep that day. And wondered, how much of it would change this time.

\--

“I take your deal.”

Andrew looked up from the account book he was flipping through and raised his brow.

“You are late,” he said, chewing on a blue ballpoint pen. “I said a portrait for a tire. You can’t get it before the sketch is done, and I don't like rushing it. Come tomorrow, I’ll fix your tire then you can leave.”

“I don't want a sketch,” Neil said and pointed at the bright yet somewhat sorrowful painting on the wall. “I want one of those.”

Andrew took the pen out and stared at him for a considerable time. When he spoke, his voice had deepened. “You want an oil painting.”

“Yes.”

“What do you think I am, a printer?” he put the pen back between his teeth. “I said come tomorrow, I’ll do what you want.”

Neil came closer to Andrew under his skeptic gaze, and took the pen from him. “This is what I want,” he said. “We are here for a few more days, you’ll have time.”

“I’m busy.”

“With what?” Neil asked showing around. “You have customers humans can’t see?”

“What is in it for me then?”

“You said you like my face, didn't you?”

Andrew grinned biting his lower lip. He looked at him for a few more seconds, then teared his pen away from Neil’s grip.

“I hope you are free, stranger,” he said, gesturing towards the closed door at the back. “We start now.”

The door led the way to a small make-shift art room, overflown with the smell of rich oil paints and thinner. Blank and painted canvases were left on tables, shelves and on the ground leaned to the wall in piles, all of them depicting nature in such vividness, Neil could smell the sweetness of spring flowers.

“Sit right there,” Andrew pointed at a worn out chair.

Neil sat and waited until Andrew placed a medium sized canvas on the dirtied easel and picked a pencil. “Don’t move,” he warned Neil before he went to the other side of the canvas.

“Why don't you sell them?” Neil couldn't help but ask. The place didn't look in its best shape, and they could do with a bit more capital in their hands.

“They are not for sale.”

“They are beautiful,” Neil continued. “So vivid.”

“I said don't move.”

After ten minutes or so of sketching, he switched to the paints. The sharp, unique smell hit Neil’s nose immediately, dizzyingly intense as it filled the room. They didn't talk for god knows how long, moving only when Andrew stepped away from the canvas. Neil stood up, cracking his arms and neck to get a feel of them.

“Tomorrow morning,” Andrew said.

Neil nodded and left the shop until he came back on Monday 7 a.m. with the car. He stepped out carefully but still hissed at the sharp pain. It had been two days, but it still occasionally stung enough to make him vocal about it.

Andrew looked at the tire and sent him out, saying that it should take around thirty minutes. Neil started walking away, slightly flinching with the first few steps and was stopped by Andrew.

“Are you more stupid than you let out to be?” he said testily. “Sit. I’m bringing ice.”

He placed a bag of shredded ice over Neil’s foot and instructed him to not move until he was done.

“Can I at least look at your paintings,” Neil asked. “I think I will be sitting enough as you work.”

Andrew sighed and said do whatever the fuck he wanted to do, but warned him to not touch any of them. So Neil walked in, taking in the heavy smell again, and walked around countless paintings laying around the room. He didn't realize Andrew’s job was done until he called at him, then he fell back to his position before with an ice bag on his ankle.

Before Andrew prepared the paints, Neil took out a small container from his back pocket and reached for his eyes.

Andrew watched him wordlessly as he did that, Neil blinking at the world for the first time in years through his own eyes.

“You have an eye for details, must work well for your paintings” Neil said, putting the lens container back into his pocket. “You were right. I don't really like the lenses as well.”

“Any other palette changes I should know of?”

Neil twirled a few curls of his hair around his finger, and talked mostly to himself as he said, “I wonder so. Haven’t seen its real color in ages,” Neil looked up. “Help me find it.”

Andrew didn't speak as he walked up to him, gently pressed on his hair to see its roots and walked up to a random pile, taking the canvas on the bottom of the pile. It was of a sunset, hills painted with deep crimson under the bright heat of what’s left of the sun. Neil could feel his eyes getting watered, but he gulped it down. Sniffing away rest of his emotions, he nodded and looked at Andrew.

“You need to touch up the roots.”

“I suppose I do.”

That night, when they were done, Neil could see his form coming to life. His cheeks were a mix of pink and a cold hue of blue, sun shining through the small window brightening up his ice cold eyes. It wasn't a happy picture. The silhouette just forming with the skilled hands wasn't smiling or it wasn't warm enough to arise sympathy or love to the subject. It was cold, distant, strange. But real. Realer than what Neil saw in the mirror.

Andrew had more questions, Neil knew that. But he knew, at least presumed, Neil couldn't answer them and silently watched as Neil admired his work.

“You are talented.”

“And you are more cryptic than I thought.”

“A miscalculation,” Neil said turning towards him. “Wouldn’t be alive today if I hadn’t mastered leading people to it.”

He didn't realize how close they were until he looked into Andrew’s eyes. It was when Neil realized the static lights in the room failed miserably to show how their true color, they were supposed to be warm, glossy rich like honey and reflect what they saw with truer emotions than anything could ever do. He didn't realize he was reaching for Andrew’s face either, something he stopped that moment but held his hand there, waiting until he leaned into it, permitting and reciprocating that impulse which could surely be his demise.

When Andrew moved, he moved towards Neil’s face.

Their mouths connected the way a traveller would to a bottle, drinking from each other like they were their only spring, and they were drained from thirst. Andrew grabbed Neil’s hand and smashed it to the back of his head, Neil holding securely to what was handed to him.

\--

“Nathaniel, wake up.”

Nathaniel opened his eyes to find Mary leaned over him, fully dressed as she threw her backpack on. The name she called him with drained the color from his face, indicated nothing but the fact that he just said farewell to another name forever.

“We need to leave, now.”

“I thought we were staying for a few more days.”

“Change in plans,” she said, taking out a silver flask and taking a large gulp from it. She never drank unless it was so serious. “The plane is in six hours and we have a two hour road before us.”

“Papers?”

“Plus half an hour for the stop.”

Nathaniel had to think fast. He couldn't leave like this. Not now.

“I left my folder at the repair shop.”

The room rang with the sharp echo of her slap, Nathaniel’s head tilting with its force.

“You stupid  _ fucking- _ ” she took a forced breath. “ _ Why did you take it out in the first place? _ ”

“He wanted to look inside the car,” he said, his cheek stinging with heat. “To see if there was more needed to be done.”

Mary swore and kicked the side of her bed hard enough to move it a bit. “You get that stupid folder in ten minutes I don't care what you do,  _ understood _ ?”

“Yes, mom.”

Neil was breathless when he reached the shop, letting out a relieved sigh when he saw the faint light illuminating under the door. He knocked on it hastily a few times praying that he would hear it.

A weary looking Andrew opened the door, his paint coat stained with red and blue on the sleeves, which he took off immediately.

“What are you doing here.”

“We are leaving.”

He froze at the doorsill. “When?”

“Now.”

A shadow passed behind his eyes. “I don't like lies, stranger. You said you’d be here for longer.”

“I thought so too, listen,” he said stepping closer. “Finish the painting.”

“Without a model or motive?”

“You don't need a model,” Neil said. “An eye for details, and a memory of a camera. I saw how you got the single painting with the exact color you needed among piles of them.”

“A motive.”

“I’ll be back.”

“I said, I don't like lies.”

“I will be back,” Neil assured him, and partly himself. “I don't know how many years it will take. I don't know when, but I will.” He took a few steps backwards, but didn't lose their eye contact. “Remember this face, Andrew. I promise you, I’ll remember yours.”

The strange boy turned back and ran away, leaving Andrew looking after him as he went. His gaze fell to his shoes after the boy disappeared into the dark, the clear image of him staring skeptically back at Andrew when he closed his eyes.

“You know I will, stranger,” he talked out loud, his throat twisted with a strange feeling over his words. “Better keep that promise of yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you anon so much for your [ask](https://caffeinanity.tumblr.com/post/622106366240227328/prompt-time-sunflowers-sunrises-and-early). i cant say if this was what you were shooting for when you said "sunflowers, sunrises and early mornings" but... well. i dont really know what happened here either.


	2. Strange Colors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when i first wrote oil painted sunflowers, i didnt know id get so attached to this au. now thanks to that anon who gave me the initial prompt and the inspiration, its one of my favourite works :) a new chapter was completely out of the picture for me, but i basically couldnt get painter andrew out of my mind. although it took me some time (a long time) to put thoughts into words, i eventually could find the drive to finish this
> 
> thank you so much for your amazing comments people, honestly you never fail to make my day

Automatic doors opened in front of him, letting a sharp breeze in without a proper warning. Against it, he took a step outside, along with a shaky yet quick breath without anyone noticing, then the rest of the steps towards the deserted corner he marked out earlier.

He rested his elbows on the rails before picking a cigarette and putting it to his mouth, trying to guard the lighter with both his hands until it was finally lit. The fire shone brightly for a moment before burying him into darkness again, leaving the only light source to be the animated city under, rushing past with colors he barely tracked.

Red. Yellow. Green. White. Pink. Yellow. Orange. Red. Red. White. Red. Pink. Blue.

Blue.

Blue. Red. Blue. Blue. Blue. Red.

Red. Blue.

The goddamn blue.

He removed his glasses and let the colors mash to an indistinguishable haze. He tiptoed and slightly bent over the edge, safe enough that he could hold on, but away enough that could make stomachs twist over the simple calculation of which floor they were on and what was under them. For him, at least.

“Please don't leave me alone in there. If one more person approaches me saying they love my art, we will need to call an ambulance.”

Andrew dragged out a breath, steadying back on his feet, then blew away smoke. “I’m enjoying a fucking cig here Aaron. Piss off.”

Aaron casually flipped Andrew off and approached. “Like you enjoy that dreadful thing at all.”

Aaron situated himself next to Andrew, closer than someone else could even dare. He mirrored Andrew’s poise, elbows up and above the rails, hands closer to him in the hope that could stay warm. His hair, benefit of being a few inches shorter, stayed rather tidier than Andrew’s despite Andrew’s being clipped behind. He hated how long hair needed maintenance, but it was somehow growing on him.

He glowered at Aaron. “Not like this, I don’t,” he responded and flicked the cigarette away.

“That’s pollution.”

“That’s noise pollution,” though he agreed with a hint of regret.

Aaron sighed and pushed away from the railings. “Let’s go back in. Your fans are waiting with their overly expensive but disgusting champagne for your priceless insight on what that crooked line over that fading half arch means.”

It was a stretch regarding the fact that he was literally exhibiting his art, but what Andrew said next was still true.

“None of their business.” And it wasn't. This whole thing was for one person and that person only.

“Yeah, I think you cleared that up pretty well for everyone this past month,” Aaron raised his brow after a moment of contemplation. “You, know what. It feeds well into these meaningless canvases. Mysterious. People dig that.”

“Yes, exactly Aaron, that was my objective.”

Aaron took a careful peek at him and softened his expression. ‘Meaningless canvases’ was apparently a bit harsher than he intended. “I’m just messing around. Seeing this many dollar bills casually strolling in a room isn’t helping my mental health,” he patted on Andrew’s back (instant execution for anyone but Aaron) and pointed towards the entrance. “Let’s just go in and get it over with.”

But that was the problem wasn't it.

Last night, last gallery.

Automatic doors opened before him again, breeze hitting from behind this time. The gallery was painstakingly bright, the brutal contrast with the darkness outside blinding his eyes temporarily. Only the canvases, in every size imaginable, could soften the transition with two colors dominating each and every single one of them. Red. And blue.

The only colors he could see since that day. A haunting muse mocking, bickering, promising  _ leaving _ ... Andrew was stuck in an endless loop.

Aaron was right. Seeing this many clueless people did annoy him. He despised how the colors were the center of attention for them inside a gallery made specifically for their gaze. But in the end, Andrew did what he had to do, what his gut was yelling at him to do.

Be visible. Unignorable. Five years was too long already.

When an unlikely art lover stumbled upon their village and saw his work, Andrew didn't think too long before accepting her offer. She curated one of the best known art galleries in New York, and her brand was giving unheard artists the acknowledgement they deserve. She was an interesting piece, looking as arrogant as one can get from far away, but she was surprisingly interested and visibly admiring her work immensely.

“It’s going to be a month long exhibition,” she said, inspecting his strokes close up on an old painting. “We are going to choose the ones to be exhibited, and one room is going to be reserved only for your art.”

“That’s manageable,” he replied. “Though I have a question.”

“Let me answer that for you,” she waved her hand. “I know someone who passed by here before. He told me about a sunflower painting unlike any other he has seen before. Got me curious. Glad it did.”

Andrew thought back on all the people who visited their town that were interested in his paintings before. A few particularly standing out came to mind, however he wasn't sure who exactly that would be. “That’s wonderful. But your name?”

“Oh, that’s easier,” she said and patted on the creases on her dress as she straightened up. “Call me Allison.”

Then she did. Give him a whole exhibition, that is.

They have been doing this for the last month, 30 days of people and more people and more people waddling in to see in which ways his heart has been broken over and over again, yet understand none of it. He should’ve been grateful that the torture was finally going to end, but relief also blew away his last crumbles of hope.

All these eyes, yet none of them which Andrew has been looking for. Drawing for.

He didn't like staying in the gallery because as much as he didn't like seeing wanderers, he _despised_ hearing them. As if men and women looking wasn't enough, their wrong interpretations of... _this_ ~~stranger, enigma, obsession, love~~ drilled through his ears until it was unbearable to hear another word.

“Andrew Joseph Minyard?” A man called from behind.

He hastily moved in front him to extend his hand, only to lower it when Andrew didn't reciprocate. Clearing his throat, he ran a hand down his rich brown tie, attached to a very expensive looking tie clip before speaking. Andrew remembered seeing him around throughout his exhibition. He must’ve just been able to gather courage for talking to him or he was trying to give the impression that he was particularly interested in his works. In the end, it didn't matter. He was going to get the same answer Andrew gave to the previous people.

“It’s wonderful to finally meet the artist behind the masterpiece,” he said, inclining his head and smiling. “My name is Christopher Hayworth and I’ve been following your progress since your debut-”

Andrew just had to interrupt. “No.”

The man made an involuntary strangling sound for being cut off abruptly. “I- I didn't ask anything yet-”

“My art is not for sale.” Andrew replied and thinking he heard enough, he started turning around.

“You see, prices are not of an importance for me-”

“I said,” the man was getting on Andrew’s nerves, so he repeated once more before walking away. “My art. Is not for sale.”

He had been more than clear about this, and people with kindergarten level comprehension skills should’ve been none of his problems.

Loud heels thumping on the floor got Andrew’s attention before the smell of her perfume reached him. Allison Reynolds made her way between the visitors effortlessly, halting before him with her usual confident smile and a raised brow.

“Not much I’m getting from you on this day,” she said, saluting someone behind him between her words. “No excitement? Satisfaction that this was one of our most successful galleries? Maybe some bittersweet mix of emotions for the end of your beginning?”

“What are you going on about?” Andrew replied distastefully. “I am only fighting my urge to kick people out of here.”

“Oh, you mean people like Cristopher there?” she smiled and waved at the sulking man next to a high cocktail table. “I agree that it’s annoying when people seem to not understand your stand against selling, but you can’t particularly blame them for trying, right? In fact… isn’t it pretty much what’s expected generally? Or were you expecting something, maybe  _ someone _ , else?”

Andrew carefully watched Allison snatch a glass of champagne from a tray. Her brows were high and lips pursed as she took a sip from the glass, leaving him with a very dominant suspicion.

He investigated her a bit more before speaking. “Who did you say that told you about my art?”

She shrugged, “I didn't.” Seeing a person among the crowd, she smiled and stepped away from the table. “And that’s my queue. Feel free to leave whenever you want. I’ll deal with cleaning this place up.”

Allison left, walking up to the rainbow haired woman on the back who held her hand as she dragged Allison behind a door. Aaron approached just after that, looking cautiously between Andrew and the disappeared silhouette of Allison.

“You okay?” he said tapping his fingers on the table with his usual rhythm. “I thought you liked her but the conversation didn't go as you imagine, I assume.”

“Aaron, did you…” he shouldn't be getting his hopes high, but his heart wouldn’t listen anymore. “Did you see…”

“The subject of your paintings?” He shrugged when Andrew stared at him. “There wasn't a single day passed by without these paints smeared or spilled on you since that guy left our town. It wasn't too complicated to put two and two together.”

“So now I’m simple.”

“Hah!” Aaron laughed. “I wish. Jokes aside, do you think anyone simple could create this? These? You are extremely talented Andrew, and I know I haven’t been telling you this… ever actually. I just... wanted you to know that.”

Aaron paused his tapping, just before it continued even faster. “Wow,” he nervously giggled. “That was uncalled for. Umm...” he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry Andrew, I didn’t see anyone like him at all.”

“I wasn't expecting you to,” Andrew said, fighting the overwhelming urge to leave this place. Disappointment was mixed in with whatever feeling he got from that few sentences. “Find Allison for me, let’s wrap this place up soon,” he said and opened the cigarette box after retrieving it from his coat. “I’m going to get some air.”

It had gotten windier since they went in, leaving Andrew harder conditions to work in to get his match to work. After multiple failed attempts he could finally track the tiny trail of smoke from his cigarette, taking a long drag to get his lungs going.

This was a futile attempt.

He knew to never hope, never get the stakes high, yet his desire to let this end had beaten what his common sense had been saying. He shouldn't have taken up the offer, it was naive to even think this was a possibility. He knew this, of course he did.

But he no longer had the strength in him to lie to himself that he wouldn’t take this chance again with his eyes closed.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he could see and hear people leaving the gallery one by one, until the last car took off with its passengers.

It was time to go in and talk about the later arrangements, but he decided to leave it to Aaron for a while more. He still was tired and the ache in the back of his head would dim only in the fresh air. He lit another cigarette, god knows how many, spending particularly more effort than the previous ones and let it dangle from his mouth. The traffic had significantly relieved over the past hour, yet it still seemed like the roads were supplied with an unending supply of cars.

That was when he heard the voice calling.

“AJM.”

Andrew’s heart stopped.

“You still sign the same way I see.”

He had to replay the words over and over again to make sure it wasn't just in his head, his hands and body going number after each as the pressure in his chest increased. He couldn't turn back to see who it was, but he didn't have to, to know exactly whom anyways.

“ _ Stranger _ ,” the stranger then continued, voicing the name of Andrew’s exhibit. He stepped closer, worn-out sneakers Andrew just knew he wore making not a single sound as they hit the ground. “I have been thinking if that’s a subject, or a call.”

_ Both. _

“You are late,” Andrew said, holding onto the railings to keep his hands from shaking. There was a fight in his mind over the reality of this happening. “The exhibit is officially over.”

“My tire exploded. The mechanic in the nearest town was an asshole.”

“Is that so?”

The stranger rested his back on the railings when he reached Andrew, and took the cigarette from between his lips. The gesture, although small, rushed all the memories Andrew wasn't successful at keeping at bay, and his chest trembled under the emotions he could contain the first time.

Three days.

To five years.

“Your habit of taking stuff off my mouth is severely annoying,” Andrew reminded him of a particular blue pen in a mechanic’s shop. “At least you didn't fall this time.”

“No one hit me yet, you know. I’m still cautious.”

“Right.” Andrew was holding and releasing his breath. He was breathing, but it still felt like choking. “You still owe me a broom.”

He chuckled and placed the stick between his teeth. “I faintly remember asking for an oil painting. Quantity-wise this wasn't what I had in mind.”

“For all it’s worth, I kept my promise.”

Neil looked at Andrew, and shifted sideways to face him directly. Which meant Andrew saw his face wholly for the first time since he turned around that night, leaving his hands covered with blue and red paint with a half-finished painting of him, watching helplessly as the stranger he yearned to know disappeared from sight.

It was that moment when Andrew knew he would never recover. Not when he left or kissed or not even for the past five years when all Andrew could do to cope was to bury himself in colors which he associated with him.

Andrew had perfect memory.

But it didn't do justice to the person behind the image.

Red. Blue.

Crimson. Ice.

No palette could match these colors.

There were no distractions, no outlet for the inexplicable feeling he had to face when he wasn’t a snap in his memory. There was no denying the irrevocable blossom in his chest or no fooling himself that it was a mere interest, anger behind an unkept promise.

He was in love. Like a fucking joke.

Andrew discreetly wiped his trembling hands on his pants. “Pretty tangible what I’ve been doing,” he said, nudging his head to the gallery behind them. “What about you?”  _ What about your mother? _

“I had strings to break,” he replied. “Shackles, more so.” Not really an answer, Andrew thought, but he wouldn’t expect anything more.

“Good,” Andrew said as he leaned over to have a clearer image of the road. “It would be a shame if you tripped and fell again. You’d be giving me enough material to work on falling images for the next decade.”

“What are you going to do with them?” Neil asked instead, talking about the gallery of paintings behind them. He took a long drag and puffed it to the air.

“Leave as a beacon,” he answered.  _ Their original purpose.  _ “I’ll ask your curator friend if she can put her skills to use at Foxhole. Make a permanent gallery to remind someone about the promise he made once upon a time.”

“She told you.”

Andrew shrugged. “Not necessarily.”

“Typical,” he shook his head, smiling. “I want to clarify, I didn't ask her to arrange all this. I didn't even think she’d remember the sunflowers I told her about, years ago. I saw your beacon, and followed it as fast as I could.”

“Took you long enough.”

“Those chains took some real smithing to get rid of.”

It was his turn to ask, and Andrew’s mouth went dry. He didn't want to call for misery this early but he had to know. “So,” he said, clearing his throat. “What will you do with this string then? Or was I another shackle to get off your chest before you are finally free?”

Neil looked down at the whizzing road, his hand tapping the ash off as a tiny rain of orange glitters. “Do you remember my other promise? The one besides getting back?”

[ _ “Remember this face, Andrew. I promise you, I’ll remember yours.” _ ]

“There is no possible way for me to get you off my chest.” When he raised his head to lock his eyes with Andrew’s, there was not a hint of doubt. “There won’t be the need of a beacon,” he said. “I’m not leaving. Not again. I am finally free.”

“You shouldn't,” Andrew whispered, “give promises you can’t hold.”

Neil placed his hand over Andrew’s, entwining their fingers on the cold hard surface of the rails.

“You should’ve learned by now, Andrew.” His hands were warm despite the cold beneath them. “I never do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, i want to thank everyone for leaving kudos and sharing your comments, you guys are the real motivation to keep writing and the absolute joy
> 
> hope you've enjoyed reading their story :)


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